Chapter Seventeen — The Broken Wagon

  By late afternoon, the trail widened again into uneven prairie scrub, but the relief was short?lived. The ground changed underfoot — harder, rock?littered, choked with exposed roots and sun?bleached debris from the spring floods.

  Miles felt the tension rise through the line like a ripple. Oxen stumbled. Wheels groaned. Every jolt threatened to snap something vital.

  Jonah kept scanning ahead. “This stretch is murder on spokes. Lucky if half the wagons survive it without repairs.”

  The words weren’t even cold when a sharp crack split the air — loud, harsh, unmistakable.

  Everyone froze.

  Another crack followed. Then a sickening groan.

  Finch’s shout cut across the line: “WAGON DOWN!”

  Miles and Jonah sprinted toward the sound, weaving between wagons and oxen. Dust billowed as they slid to a halt at the edge of the Dunnes’ wagon — the same one they’d saved during the stampede.

  This time, luck had not held.

  The right front wheel lay half?shattered in the dirt, spokes splintered, the iron tire bent nearly in half. The wagon’s entire weight slumped unevenly, its axle grinding into the earth.

  Mrs. Dunne sobbed into her apron. Children huddled close, faces pale. Mr. Dunne stood stiffly beside the wreck, knuckles white around a useless hammer.

  Finch arrived last, breath sharp, eyes sweeping the damage with grim efficiency. “Axle’s not cracked,” he muttered. “But the wheel’s done for.”

  Jonah crouched beside him. “We have a spare?”

  Finch shook his head. “Used the last one two days back. We’ve got spokes and rim pieces, but no full wheel.”

  A murmur rippled through the company. Supplies had been stretched thin since the storm, and the river crossing had ruined half the spare wood.

  Mrs. Dunne wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “What do we do, Captain? We can’t leave our things — we can’t—”

  “We’re not leaving anyone behind,” Finch said, though his jaw was tight enough to crack.

  Miles stepped forward. “We can fix it.”

  Jonah blinked. “Miles—”

  “We have spokes,” Miles said, looking at Finch. “We have rim. If we brace it with rawhide lashings and a metal strap from the supply chest, we can build a temporary wheel.”

  Finch stared at him. “You done this before?”

  “No,” Miles admitted. “But I’ve watched you and Jonah do it.”

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  Jonah gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re learning too damn fast, Miles.”

  Finch considered the broken wheel again, the approaching dusk, the nervous glances of families who knew night riders might return. “Alright,” Finch said. “Try it. Jonah, help him. Someone get me rawhide, bolts, and the wood chest. Move!”

  The trail erupted into motion.

  Improvised Engineering

  The broken wheel lay like a wounded thing in the dirt. Miles knelt beside it, ignoring the way his ribs screamed when he bent forward.

  “We’ll need to salvage what’s left,” he said. “Half these spokes can be reused — the others we replace.”

  Jonah nodded, already digging through the supply chest for spokes and wedges. “Rawhide will tighten when it dries. Good thinking.”

  Esther appeared with a basin of water and a strip of cloth for Miles. “Drink something. And don’t tear those ribs any worse.”

  Miles gave her a grateful look before turning back to work.

  They pried loose splintered spokes, hammered new ones into place, and used strips of rawhide to lash the entire structure tight. Sweat dripped down Miles’s temples; dust coated his shirt. Twice he had to stop and catch his breath, clutching the binding beneath his clothes before Jonah could see.

  “Easy there,” Jonah murmured. “You look ready to drop.”

  “I’m fine,” Miles said. Too fast. Too sharp.

  Jonah studied him briefly — then nodded, letting it go. “Alright. But if you pass out on me, I’m dragging you back to camp by your boots.”

  Miles almost smiled. Almost.

  They fixed the rim next, bending the iron strap into place with two trail hands hauling on the ends and Jonah hammering the curve steady. The rawhide tightened as it soaked. The wheel took shape — crooked, imperfect, but whole.

  “This’ll hold for a few miles,” Jonah said. “Maybe more.”

  Finch clapped Miles’s shoulder — hard enough to jar his ribs. “You’ve got a good eye, boy.”

  Miles tried not to wince. Tried not to show how much that “boy” — a word he needed to keep hearing — hurt differently every time.

  But the work wasn’t done.

  They lifted the wagon with a lever pole and set the patched?together wheel in place. The first test roll wobbled dangerously, but steadied after two turns.

  Cheers rose around them.

  Mrs. Dunne cried openly now — relief instead of fear. “Bless you, Miles. Bless you for helping us.”

  Miles flushed, ducking his head. “Just doing what needed doing.”

  Jonah grinned. “You’re catching on to trail life faster than anyone I’ve met.”

  “Maybe I had to,” Miles whispered.

  Jonah didn’t hear him — or pretended he didn’t.

  Hard Choices Ahead

  Finch inspected the repaired wheel again, expression grave. “We move, but slowly. This stretch stays narrow for another mile. After that, we hit open ground.”

  Mr. Dunne asked quietly, “How long will the fix last?”

  Miles answered honestly. “As long as it can.”

  Finch nodded. “We’ll ration repairs and check the lashings every hour.”

  He looked out across the narrowing trail, the shadows deepening in the ravine, the rocks looming above.

  “And everyone stay alert,” Finch added. “This is exactly where men with bad intentions look for weak wagons.”

  Miles felt a chill climb his spine.

  Night riders.

  They’d seen the broken wagon. They’d seen the slow pace. They’d smelled vulnerability.

  Jonah stepped beside him, voice low and quiet. “They’ll come again,” he said. “It’s only a matter of when.”

  Miles touched the charm beneath his shirt. Ptesá?’s small bundle felt warm against his skin.

  “I know,” Miles whispered. “I’ll be ready.”